


Not Made of Glass Anymore

by ItsTeatimeSomewhere



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Grease Lyrics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 17:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsTeatimeSomewhere/pseuds/ItsTeatimeSomewhere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan's got chills, they're multiplying. And he's losing control. 'Cause the power Montparnasse is supplyin'-it's electrifying!</p><p>Jehan tries to prove he isn't some fucking pearl that needs to be sheltered from life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Made of Glass Anymore

**Author's Note:**

> Jehan and Courfeyrac is just so fucking adorable I'm done. Also my Courfeyrac headcannon is Nate Ruess so sue me. Enjoy! xoxo

_You better shape up_   
_'Cause I need a man_   
_And my heart is set on you_

The first girl Jehan met was named Alice. She was tall and curvy and had shining copper hair. She and Courfeyrac walked in arm in arm, and she stuck to him like glue all night. They left together, Courfeyrac running his hands across her back. No, Jehan was not jealous.

Alice didn’t return the next day.

Elizabeth followed Courfeyrac into the Musain the next time they met. She was small and wore all black and giggled and sat on his lap all night. She traveled a lot and whispered foreign words into Courfeyrac’s ear.

She didn’t return either.

Then came Lily, Lucie, Anouk, and Zoe. In that order. And no, Jehan was not keeping track.

(But for the record, Lucie was more interested in Courfeyrac’s wallet than in his face.)

Then, just as Jehan was beginning to lose hope, Mathieu walked in.

Both Combeferre and Joly had promised him that Courfeyrac was most definitely straight. However, the endless string of girls proved otherwise and Jehan brought up this little tidbit as he slumped over a bowl of Ben & Jerry’s.  That little moment of weakness was after Anouk. It was a rough night and Jehan only wrote a pathetic little haiku.

Combeferre had wanted to call over Enjolras to rouse Jehan with one of his empowering speeches, but Enjolras had been wrapped up in a little problem called Grantaire. Instead, Combeferre had stuttered through some quote about perseverance and Joly had stood there, shaking his head emphatically.

Now of course, there was the matter of Mathieu.

Mathieu was muscular, and Jehan could see his biceps through the sheer shirt he wore. He probably had abs of steel. He had piercing blue eyes and dark, spikey hair that had been gelled within an inch of its life.

Jehan was _not_ thinking of Courfeyrac running his fingers through said hair.

No one batted an eye as Courfeyrac led Mathieu to a seat, got him a drink, and proceeded to lock lips until Jehan was sure they would need air sometime. Of course, Enjolras was pissed that someone had dared interrupt their meeting, but he did nothing about it. Jehan blamed Grantaire.

By the end of the night, Jehan wanted to throw up. Mathieu and Courfeyrac had laughed and smiled and kissed and had been generally sickeningly sweet. Jehan had poems burned into his eyelids about the mingling of Courfeyrac’s sweet Irish charm and Mathieu’s dark Spanish looks. He had shredded his napkin so it looked like a snowglobe had erupted upon his table, and Grantaire kept shooting him pitying looks. The night ended and Jehan walked home, letting the cool, March air calm him down.

Mathieu didn’t come back the next day, and for that Jehan was eternally grateful.

Henri, Clara, Colette, Marc, Selene, Derrik, and some foreign exchange student named Stefan. Each made Jehan cringe and Grantaire would envelop him in an alcoholic-smelling hug after each. Jehan would murmur “I’m fine, I’m fine,” but Grantaire would simply pet his hair and Joly would bring him Chamomile tea and Bahorel would crack jokes or threaten to pummel the man or woman who hurt his Jehan.

For this, Jehan loved his friends.

Of course, he soon was able to ignore the endless stream of beautiful people and was able to joke and laugh and smile with Courfeyrac again. Soon, he was able to write tidbits of poetry on Courfeyrac’s arms again (and if an added bonus was that Courfeyrac’s new conquests thought he had a jealous girlfriend at home, well Jehan wasn’t one to argue) and Jehan braided his hair with yellow ribbons.

Things were wonderful, and at times it felt like they were dating, just without all the kissing and such. They went out to eat, went for walks in the park, stayed home and watched movies and even cuddled on the couch. It was times like these that Jehan loved the fact that he could kiss his friends—Courfeyrac—on the cheek without it being odd.

Until, that is, Joly walked in wearing one of Courfeyrac’s sweatshirts. Of course, this wasn’t odd, but the confusion came along with the kiss that Courfeyrac planted on Joly’s lips as he swept past the hypochondriac.

“So,” Grantaire began, taking a swing of his bottle, “can we call you Joufeyrac now?” People sniggered and Joly blushed. “Flying on the four “L’s” now, are we?”

Courfeyrac simply grabbed Joly’s shoulders and hugged him. “Nah, just a one-time thing.”

“Of course, why would I ever want to be seen with this man?” Joly said nervously, avoiding Jehan’s eyes. “He’s great in bed, but, well, we all know how he is outside the bedroom.”

“Truth!” Grantaire added, raising the bottle in the air. “No offense, Courf, but nothing can compensate for your attitude. Not even your massive dong.”

Everyone laughed. Jehan blushed. So Grantaire knew the size of…it? How many people had Courfeyrac slept with in their little group?

Apparently quite a few. Once he managed to get Grantaire drunk enough, Jehan had discovered the identities of Courfeyrac’s many paramours. Almost everyone, save for Enjolras and himself, had been captured by his charms at one time or another.

So what made him different?

Obviously, Enjolras was unavailable as the only two ever able to capture his heart were Patria and Grantaire.

But why him? Did he do something wrong?

When he asked Grantaire about this, the drunkard laughed and laughed. “Really Jehan? You’ve done something wrong? You are the untouchable flower, pure as freshly fallen snow. You are the diamond no one is willing to touch, for fear of tainting your shine. Why you—“

“Okay, I get it,” Jehan called out, blushing furiously.

“So you see? He’s never going to touch you, my dear, sweet Jehan.” With that, Grantaire promptly slumped off and fell into Enjolras’ lap. Their leader sighed and rolled his eyes, but Jehan saw him smile and put a hand into Grantaire’s hair.

However, not even the love in the air could keep Grantaire’s words out of Jehan’s mind. They don’t want to be near him? Feel as if he is some fragile jewel that is to be untarnished? Should he go live in a fucking monastery and get it over with?

Jehan took a deep breath. Well, if they—Courfeyrac—believed he was a flower, Jehan would prove that he was able to fend for himself. Maybe then he wouldn’t be made of glass anymore. Maybe he would be made of something stronger.

* * *

 

_You better shape up_   
_You better understand_   
_To my heart I must be true_   
_Nothing left_   
_Nothing left for me to do_

Bahorel hated Sunday nights. In fact, they were shit. He couldn’t drink very much because of his morning classes, and he couldn’t go home with anyone either. Bar fights were out of the question because no one even went to the bar, and overall Sunday nights were a stupid concept.

However, one particular Sunday night was much more different. He and Grantaire were debating the merits of cosmopolitans versus Long Island Iced Teas when the doorbell on the Musain wall jingled. Bahorel took a sip of his brandy and promptly spit it out as he saw the figure who walked through the door.

It was Jehan, but it wasn’t Jehan. IT was a Jehan draped in a massive, black leather jacket, a Jehan who had rings under his eyes, and a Jehan whose hair wasn’t even combed, let alone braided.

It was a Jehan followed in by Montparnasse. Jehan turned to the tall man and pressed a quick kiss onto his lips before silently moving towards a small table in the back. As much as Bahorel wanted to pummel Montparnasse (the bastard had beat him out of three-hundred dollars one time in a bar fight) his first priority was Jehan. A Jehan who was currently surrounded by all of his closest friends, taking the jacket off and replacing it with a sweater and running fingers through his hair. The only person who wasn’t sitting around Jehan was Enjolras, but he was arguing with some politician in the corner.

As Bahorel approached the mob, he heard Jehan’s mumblings of “I’m fine, I’m fine. Gracious, guys. It’s fine.”

Courfeyrac looked ready to murder someone. “How long has it been since you’ve slept, Jehan?” He all but growled.

Jehan glared at him. “I’m fine, Courf. Chill out,” he snapped. “I don’t need to be pampered. Don’t we have a protest tomorrow?”

Courfeyrac looked shocked at Jehan’s outburst, which was understandable because Bahorel had heard Jehan snap about three times in his life, and none of them were at Courfeyrac.

When the protest was mentioned, Enjolras’ head popped up. He apologized to the man he was speaking to—the man looked quite happy to be rid of the fiery revolutionary—and moved over towards Jehan.

“Our friend is right,” he began, and Bahorel could hear a sermon coming on, so he quickly left for the bar.

“As I’m sure you all know…” Enjolras began as he drew up next to Grantaire, motioning for a shot from the bartender.

“Isn’t he beautiful when he goes off like that,” Grantaire asked, smiling at Enjolras.

Bahorel groaned. It wasn’t going to be much better over here.

* * *

 

_I better shape up_   
_If I'm gonna prove_   
_(You better prove)_   
_That my faith is justified_

The protest was doomed from the start. Originally, Bahorel hadn’t even wanted to show up, but one of Eponine’s friends was going to be there and she was terribly attractive. If Bahorel had the opportunity to get beaten up and have a sexy woman gush over his manliness, well he wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

It was going to be peaceful, but nothing was peaceful with Enjolras there to rile up the people.

“Are you going to let this injustice happen? Are we nothing more than a voice in the crowd? No! We can make a difference, and we can do something! Let your voice be heard, let your thoughts become actions!”

Bahorel had no fucking idea what they were protesting, but he was ready for a fight. At first, it was simply Enjolras yelling and the people responding. Then, the people found sticks and rocks and other threatening items. Then, some dickwad called the police. Then, things got ugly.

People were getting beaten up, officers were being taken down by sticks and fists, and in the middle of it all lay les amis.

Enjolras’ face was red and Grantaire was trying to pull him off an officer. Feuilly was slapping people with his hat, and Bossuet had a gash on his forehead that Joly was trying to bandage. Courfeyrac was whacking someone with a branch, and Combeferre was, as per usual, trying to reason with some rowdy people yet resorting to fists when necessary.

There was only one difference between this protest and any other Bahorel had been involved in.

Jehan was in the thick of it, pummeling men (or trying to) and getting kicked and punched and taking it all in stride. His face was angry and his eyes were bright. Thank god Courfeyrac hadn’t noticed, because all would have been lost if he had realized that Jehan was in danger.

Bahorel, though, noticed the moment the smaller man went down. He muttered a curse under his breath before rushing through the fray to grab Jehan. He was able to drag the unconscious man to the park next to their battlefield as reinforcements arrived and Enjolras was arrested—again.

Slowly, their ranks picked themselves up and Joly began sharing his medical expertise with those who didn’t need to go to the hospital. Others were put into cars and whisked off, and Bahorel was at loss with the man in his arms.

Jehan’s hair was mussed and there was blood dripping from a cut behind his ear. How did that even get there? The beginnings of a black eye were there and his lip was cut. That, of course, said nothing about his hands which were scuffed with broken nails and bloody knuckles. Ripped jeans and a stringy sweater finished off his helpless look.

Bahorel took two deep breath and carried Jehan to his car. Concussions were bad, right? He tried to avoid Jehan’s pallor as he drove through the winding streets to the nearest ER. At a stoplight, he sent out a mass text letting everyone know where he was, and soon his inbox was flooded.

Then, the calls came in.

“What happened? Is he okay? Oh god, is he dying? He can’t die! He’s too young! Would god be so cruel as to let such a flower-“

“Courfeyrac, shut the fuck up and just get to St. Mary’s as soon as you can. It’s just a concussion, but Jehan needs someone to wake up to and I need a drink.” He hung up and pulled into the parking lot, dropping Jehan at the reception desk and filling out the multitude of forms, putting Courfeyrac down as next of kin.

Hopefully, Courfeyrac would pay him back with alcohol.

Rolling his eyes, he grabbed his keys and went to find the nearest bar.

* * *

 

_I better shape up_   
_'Cause you need a man_   
_(I need a man)_   
_Who can keep me satisfied_

Jehan’s head was pounding. He heard beeping and smelled that disgusting antiseptic smell of hospitals. What had he done? The protest (riot) was a blur, and the last thing he remembered was going home with Montparnasse. The man was great in bed, but a dick otherwise. He made Jehan feel inferior, and he absolutely hated floral. Thought they were atrocious and didn’t want Jehan wearing them.

If it proved that he was a stronger person, Jehan would let go of his Top Shop sweaters.

However, when he opened his eyes he wasn’t looking into Montparnasse’ loathing glares. Instead, it was Courfeyrac’s upturned noes and watery eyes. He was holding Jehan’s hand and rubbing it between his fingers, and only when Jehan attempted to move did he jerk out of the plastic chair.

“Oh my god, Jehan you’re awake!” He nearly pulled Jehan out of the bed, wincing as Jehan hissed. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think about it. God, are you okay? You must be in so much pain. Should I call a nurse? Or maybe Joly? Although I don’t even know if he’s done with his degree yet. Who knows—“

“Courfeyrac, shut up.” Oddly enough, Courfeyrac listens. He bows his head, hand still gripping Jehan’s.

The two sit in silence for a few minutes, Jehan hearing only the humming of the machines and the ticking of the clock. He wonders when a doctor will come running in to give his diagnosis.

“I was scared,” Courfeyrac says suddenly, his voice small. “You were hurt and I was scared.”

Jehan gapes at him. This is the first time he’s ever hear Courfeyrac sound so shaken, let alone admit fear. However, before he can respond, the doctor runs in followed by a young nurse. An attractive young nurse. With breasts and long, blonde hair and sparkling eyes and a cute smile and Jehan let out a groan.

“Mr. Prouvaire, how are you feeling?” The doctor asked, his voice calming. He began with a standard set of questions about the state of his injuries because, apparently, he had gotten a concussion in the scuffle. Attractive Nurse Lady was doing different tests on him and scratching information down on a little clipboard. Even the clipboard was cute. Fuck.

The one saving grace was that Courfeyrac continued to hold his hand for the entire procedure. At one moment, Attractive Nurse Lady needed to reach between them, but Courfeyrac just held up their hands as if they were playing London Bridge and she was supposed to go under them.

She complied. Jehan grinned.

Finally, the examination was done and the doctor declared that Jehan could leave within the day. He gave Jehan a smile and left, leaving Attractive Nurse Lady behind. She scratched something else on a slip of paper and slipped it into Courfeyrac’s pocket.

“Call me later, sweetie,” she said cheekily. She left the room with her hips swaying, yet Courfeyrac didn’t even glance away from Jehan’s face. He still looked as concerned as ever.

“So are you going to call her?” Jehan asked, his heart plummeting.

“I—“

Grantaire came barreling into the room, dragging a reluctant but concerned Enjolras with him.

“Jehan!” Grantaire crowed, pulling up a chair next to Courfeyrac’s. “I hope you’re holding up! Enjolras almost left the protest when we heard you’d been taken to the hospital! Almost, that is.”

“I knew you would be safe with Courfeyrac,” Enjolras muttered. He was standing awkwardly next to Grantaire until the latter pulled him onto his lap.

Jehan blushed. “He’s been great, I must say. Where is everyone else?”

“Only two visitors at a time. Courf doesn’t count because he’s related, apparently?” Grantaire winked at Courfeyrac, and it was his turn to blush.

“Bahorel put me down as next of kin,” he said, a cheeky grin settling on his face. “This way, I’ll never get kicked out.”

Jehan wondered why he would want to stay here forever. After all, a hospital would get quite boring, right? Besides Attractive Nurse Lady, he didn’t think there were many beauties here. Grantaire and Enjolras stayed only for a minute, and soon left to go “clean the house” (have sex). Jehan turned to talk to Courfeyrac, but Combeferre and Bahorel came barreling in, and after them returned Feuilly and Eponine. It was an endless stream of visitors for close to an hour, until finally Jehan was given some peace and quiet.

“I don’t like seeing you hurt,” Courfeyrac said, breaking the silence. “It hurts me to see you hurt.” He was gazing at Jehan’s hands, avoiding all eye contact. “It’s like having your hope trampled or your sunlight hidden. Its uncomfortable, to say the least.”

Jehan is aghast. “What brought this on?”

“I wasn’t there to stop it.”

“I didn’t need your help.”

“Regardless, I should’ve—“

“I’m not some wilting flower. I’m strong enough to handle this.”

“Of course, I just think that maybe we should’ve been watching out more. If you had gotten a serious injury…” he trailed off, running a hand through his hair.

“Well I fucking didn’t, Courf, so stop thinking about what could have happened and focus on getting me out of this fucking bed.” Jehan didn’t know where the language came from, but he seemed to be right back where he started. People were still walking on glass around him, except this time it was in a hospital rather than a bar.

Courfeyrac immediately nodded, and called the doctor back in (thankfully without Attractive Nurse Lady) to sign the release forms. At long last, Jehan was able to leave the hospital and slowly make his way to Courfeyrac’s car. When they were settled in traffic, Courfeyrac brought _it_ up.

“Why were you dating Montparnasse?”

Jehan was starting to get annoyed with this soft-and comforting-yet-still-nervous-and-so-fucking-cute Courfeyrac. He didn’t know how to act around him. IT was such a change from hyper-and-cute-and-bouncy Courfeyrac and what was he supposed to do? And say?

“I have my reasons.”

“Can I hear them?”

“No.”

“Why not!?”

“They’re private.”

“So’s my dick, but I share it all the time!”

Jehan blushed.

They sit in silence as cars around them honk and drivers slam on the breaks. “Maybe I was tired of being treated like I’m five.”

“Who treats you like that?” Courfeyrac asks, affronted.

As if he didn’t know. “Everyone. Yes, even you.” With the look on Courfeyrac’s face, Jehan elaborates. “You all treat me like some sort of delicate being, as if I can’t stand up for myself or hold my ground. I mean, Grantaire only lets me have three drinks a night because he thinks I can’t hold my alcohol. And he’s a goddamn alcoholic! For God’s sake, just because I like flowers in my hair doesn’t mean I’m a wimp!” Taking a breath, he avoided looking at Courfeyrac. “So, I decided that Montparnasse would be the equivalent to a “fuck you I can handle myself”.

“Except you couldn’t,” Courfeyrac says quietly.

Jehan freezes. “Pull over.”

“No, I didn’t mean it—“

“Pull over now.”

Courfeyrac shoots him a glance, but Jehan is boiling and they still don’t listen. Is it that hard for everyone to comprehend? Silently, Courfeyrac merges lanes until he pulls over at a park. Immediately, Jehan gets out, trying to control his breathing and keep the nausea at bay.

“You’re not well enough, Jehan!” Courfeyrac shouts as he walks away. And, well Courfeyrac can go fuck himself. Jehan is perfectly fine.

Until he feels the world sway around him and maybe he shouldn’t have walked so fast. But before he reaches the ground, a pair of hands grab him and fold him into a lap.

“I’m sorry we didn’t listen to you.”

Jehan nods, playing with Courfeyrac’s hands. They’re short and the nails are bitten and apparently he writes notes on the side of his hand but that doesn’t matter because they’re beautiful.

“And I don’t like you dating Montparnasse,” Courfeyrac says quickly before ducking his head into Jehan’s.

“And why is that?” B _ecause you like him?_

Courfeyrac doesn’t say anything. But Courfeyrac is never at a loss for words. Courfeyrac always has a pickup line or a compliment or an insult or a joke and he never shuts up and Jehan wishes he would just stop changing.

“I, um, I don’t like you dating people because, well,” he takes a deep breath. “Grantaire says I’m jealous but I’m not cause you’ve just said that, ah, you don’t need people looking out for you and you aren’t a wilting flower and I know you’re not because I-I think you’re a lovely flower, erm, I mean I like you and you, ah, well you get the picture?”

Jehan tried to sort through the stunted phrases when he heard the words.

“I like you.”

I like you. Like you?

“Wait, do you mean you like me? Or you _like_ like me?”

“What are we, in third grade?” Courfeyrac gave a nervous chuckle, leaning away from Jehan.

“Answer the question.”

“I _like_ like you.” Courfeyrac smiled hopefully and God, Jehan could not resist that fucking smile compiled with the words he just said and maybe he sounded like a third grader but he was the cutest person on the planet and Jehan couldn’t help but lean forward and press his lips to Courfeyrac’s.

It was a kiss that lasted less than a second, and when Jehan moved away Courfeyrac’s eyes were still closed. “I like like you too,” he whispered.

Courfeyrac’s responding grin could have lit up all the light bulbs in the world.

* * *

 

_You're the one that I want_   
_Oo-oo-oo, honey_   
_The one that I want_   
_Oo-oo-oo, honey_   
_The one that I want_   
_Oo-oo-oo, the one I need_   
_Oh, yes indeed_

The next time Courfeyrac walked into the Musain one night, it wasn’t with some bitch, it wasn’t with their friends, it was with Jehan. And he giggled with Jehan and fed Jehan food and Jehan he went home with.

It was Jehan he loved.


End file.
